A Sign

This story is loosely based on
a true incident. My grandmother would have said every word the
character
in the story uttered had she felt the need.

God
told her to do it; "I got a sign,"
she said. The old woman planned to have two sugar maple trees hewn from
her lawn.

On
a blistering summer morning in
the summer of 1992, she sought respite from the sun on her wide back
porch
in the shade of the cherished trees. Enveloped by her sagging straw
garden
hat, she sat, not swaying, in a cane-backed rocking chair, work-gloved
hands held loose in her lap, and waited for a wind. As was her habit,
she
listened. She heard The Lord whisper words of warning when the summer
breeze
did play with the broad, many-pointed leaves of the doomed maples.

She
informed her family of the "sign"
when they were gathered around her table in celebration of her
eightieth
birthday in July. "I might get Mr. Mackey's boy to take down them two
trees
in the back this fall," she lisped through loose, false teeth and
laughing
lips reddened by the roses on her store-bought cake provided by her
kinfolk
for the ceremony. No one at the table acknowledged her remark, but
three
or four of the octogenarian's assembled offspring exchanged patronizing
glances over her wispy, white hair, permed especially for the event.
The
old woman laughed again.

The
two youngest great-grandchildren
played under the maple trees that summer and autumn. Children had
cavorted
beneath the ceiling of the ancient branches since the old woman and her
husband had moved to the little house twelve years ago, and most
probably
other families' children had played under the trees for generations
before
that. The maples considered for chain saw culmination stood sentinel at
the bottom of a short, steep hill leading up to a rusty, though strong,
chain-link fence screening climbing children from a rusty, though
much-used,
railroad track. The trees shaded a safe playground.

The
young boys imagined the twirley
seed pods on the green trees were weapons bombarding them in the summer
winds. When the leaves turned orange and yellow and red, the
great-grandchildren
pretended the seeds were helicopters whirring downward. The
great-grandmother
sat on the back porch rocking in the shade of the summer trees dreading
how bare the landscape would be when she executed her plan. In the
autumn,
she pretended to dislike the task of raking the leaves into a fragrant,
flaming pile.

The
old woman loved the trees and
all work involved with the trees. She adored all growing things. Her
lilies, hostas, hydrangeas, peonies, azaleas, irises, pansies and vast
clusters
of un-named explosions of color held tribute to her green thumb
throughout
the year. Her husband helped her move the flowers from the old place
when
the family re-located to another part of the state. Their only son
moved
away and shortly after found the little green house nearby for his
parents.
The old man and the old woman would have brought the trees from the old
home if they could have, but they soon bonded with the maple trees in
their
new lot.

Until
the great-grandfather became
too ill to ride his lawnmower, he and the great-grandmother did all of
the yardwork. She employed the same young men to mow her yard her
husband
hired before he went to heaven, but she still tended to her flowers and
her raking and such on her own. Yardwork made her feel closer to the
husband,
who had departed in the spring of 1991 after more than sixty years of
marriage
with her.

Her
family knew she loved the trees,
so were surprised when in the winter she began to actively and
vigorously
campaign to have the two trees in the back destroyed. First she
grumbled
to anyone who would listen about how horribly the previous autumn's
raking
had hurt her. Her son, her daughter-in-law, two granddaughters who
lived
not so far away, and at least three great-granchildren reminded her
they
each had offered to rake the leaves. Each person volunteered to rake
the
next year, and the matter was considered closed for a while.

Then
the old woman tried a new strategy.
She vowed to her kin that she had recently been having dreams about
Great-Granddaddy
in which spectral settings he begged his wife to have the two trees in
back cut down. He was afraid, she told his living loved ones, one or
both
of the giant old trees "was gonna blow over on the house and smash it
all
to smithereens." Her story spooked several of the younger children, so
she stopped telling it.

She
next employed logic in quest
of her aim. Her son and his wife explained to the old woman how costly
might be the removal of the trees by reputable tree surgeons, and she
countered,
"I have money set back to do what I please --and I please to have those
trees cut." The daughter-in-law pointed out what splendid shade the
trees
provided in summer, and the old woman reminded her there would still be
four such trees left on the west side where the sun shone brightest.
The
son argued the great old trees deserved respect, and his mother just
looked
at him through eyes slightly squinted with a "great?, old?, deserving
of
respect?" look on her face.

The
oldest granddaughter, the two
oldest great-grandsons, and one of the great-granddaughters were
enlisted
to try to talk some sense into the matriarch. The teenagers came away
in
turn shaking their heads, and the old woman's granddaughter came away
in
tears. No imminent environmental crisis, sin against nature, or
waste-of-money
warning could sway the old woman.

She
held fast to her resolve and
made arrangements, without aide from her disapproving family members,
to
have the trees chopped down in the early summer of 1993. Wisely, she
hired
a licensed, insured company from the next county so as to ward off
insurance
woes. The old woman sat on the back porch admiring the trees every
sunny
day for a week or more while she waited for the tree-cutters.

During
the last few days before the
murders, family members confronted her singly and in groups in an
attempt
to have the trees pardoned at the eleventh hour. The old woman became
impatient
with her silly offspring.

"I
got a sign from God," she told
them, "and I don't aim to go against it. It's not every time I go
against
all of you, but this time I got to. Them trees is coming down, and
there's
not a blessed thing any one of you can do to stop it."

The
trees came down.

It
didn't look as bad as some of
the great-granchildren had predicted. The grass on that side of the
house
got more sun and grew lush and lovely, and the yard appeared to be
bigger
and friendlier. It was possible to get in and clean out the weeds and
trash
around the garage and the toolshed with the offending trees out of the
way, and the old woman grew some lovely tomatoes in a patch she cleared
that summer. Now when the trains went by, the two youngest
great-grandboys
could wave at the conductors, and the conductors waved back.

The
old woman was very proud of herself.

On
February 10, 1994, when the big
ice storm hit, the old woman slept warm in her house with her new gas
heater.
She had not argued with her loved ones when they insisted she trade in
her old wood-burning stove the previous autumn. She rarely argued with
anyone, ever, on any subject.

The
sounds of the storm woke her.
Tree branches weighted down by ice crashed to the frozen ground. The
roars
and cracks and reports of echoes sounded to her like the gunfire in the
WWII movies she had watched with her veteran husband. When she was
brave
enough to look out a window, she saw the storm's wake also looked
war-torn.

She
was not a bit surprised to see
the devastating swath laid out of the countryside along the railroad
tracks.
Every living, breathing bit of organic material in that path had fallen
over towards her yard. The wretched path ran just where the two maple
trees
had once lived and breathed so tall, quite tall enough to reach and
cover
her entire home if they had been felled by the storm.

When
the electric power went out,
the old woman's son and daughter-in-law made their way to her house to
share her new gas heat. The couple were literally astounded at the
apparent,
averted disaster they viewed in the old woman's yard. Later, the
daughter-in-law
told one of her daughters, "You just wouldn't beleive it. I have no
doubt
that house would be gone if the trees were still standing when the
storm
came -- and probably her in it! It's incredible!"

The
old woman never said, "Ha, ha,
I told you so," but she wore a satisfied smile on her wrinkled face for
weeks. Every single member of her family, some to her face and some in
confidence to friends and family members, vowed never again to argue
with
the old woman.

Shortly after I entered first
grade in 1956, I became aware that I adored two of the three "R"s. (
I'm
not overly fond of arithmetic.) In college I majored in English with
the
intent of attempting to add something
of worth to the English language during my lifetime. After college I
decided
to see the world first, and proceeded to move around said world with my
career soldier husband. Then I made a yet another detour in my plans to
upbring the most wonderful son and daughter ever imagined. The husband
retired, the children grew up, and we all live happily where I started,
in the best place in the world, Tennessee. Now I sit in front of the
computer
screen and try to explain what I learned.